


Half A World Away

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finduilas in Mandos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half A World Away

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to elvses for the beta.
> 
> Written for ficalbum... lyrics are quoted here and there. ;)
> 
>  **CD and Song:** Out Of Time (REM) - Half A World Away.
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Mandos, First Age 494**

This could be the saddest dusk I've ever seen turned to a miracle. Something is missing from my memory, something that might explain how I was removed from that nightmare of the orc camp, from the dirt, the pain, the screams... Something is missing, but I am not sure I want to know what it is. The grace of the Valar or a figment of my imagination has placed me in this warm mist. It smells like spring. I hear rustling and fair voices raised in song in the distance. I cannot see far but under my bare feet grows clean, fresh grass, and low clusters of flowers bloom around me in unkempt vivaciousness. This place is good; I know it.

My mind is racing, trying to grasp this new reality. Nothing can erase the suffering I have witnessed, but a peace seeps into me, as if I am a tree drawing water from the ground.

Can it be...? Can it be that I have found a merciful death and that I am now in Mandos? I stagger at the thought. The thought of being dead seems too unreal, like on of those jokes so bad that make us laugh.

A blackbird sings, reminding me of my mother. She always liked blackbirds and daisies, little presents from nature, nothing of which poets would ever sing. Could it be that I would see her again?

I take a step and walk through the mist, following every hint of a presence, but the voices never come closer. This ever-present mist enfolds me, and yet I do not feel frightened or lost; I feel cradled.

At last, though, I find stone walls, and the mist becomes thinner to allow me to see a wide gate and a soft sand road meandering up a hill. I follow it, as the mist fading into nothing lets a shy spring sun warm me.

At the top of the hill a mansion stands, imposing and yet inviting. I cross its doors, and a final glance back shows me banks of clouds, as if I had climbed a high mountain.

A lone figure stands at the top of the stairs inside the great hall. I do not need any further conjectures to know that he is Mandos, Námo, the Vala of the dead. So I am dead in fact. What an odd thought that is: not as shocking and sorrowful as one would think, just odd, and vaguely comforting.

Námo extends his hand and I climb the stairs to take it. "My lord," I think more than say, bowing.

"Welcome, child." He leads me through wide corridors filled with lovely light that pours from the wide windows, until we reach a door twice my height. He makes way for me to enter and I come into a world of fantasy. Everywhere, lovely colours fill the walls and every free surface, in a kaleidoscope of life scenes of incredible detail. I almost miss the slender figure by the window. Vaïre, weaver of destiny...

She beacons me to join her, and I watch over her shoulder as she works, trying to discern what it is that she wants to show me. At last I identify Túrin crying by a mound, kneeling as one who asks for forgiveness. For a second, I wonder who lies in that tomb, but then I realise that it is my grave. I should be shocked, but all I feel is a vague curiosity.

Námo places a kind hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him. "We heal here, child. How should you be healed?"

I feel that I am being tested, that there is a right answer, and that Mandos doubts that I can find it. I have nothing to lose, so I reply, "My heart is heavy with loss, anger, and regret. We have waited so long for help, but I suppose that Aman is vastly more comfortable than Middle-earth, my Lord, is it not? And I am also angry at him." I point to the tapestry, but the vivid images are gone, as if centuries have passed and the wool's colours have faded. Still, I am angry at Túrin for abandoning me, for not loving me enough. I look inside and I lower my voice, anger dampened by remorse. "I am angry at myself too." I search the tapestries for Gwindor, but I cannot find him. "Love should have been greater. I failed him."

Vairë smiles faintly. "She is not as thick-hearted as you expected, husband. She'll do fine by my side."

And thus it is that I am taken under her wing. Day upon day I help her with her wools and colours and patterns, searching for forms of my loved ones in her work. My brother Ereinion lives by the sea, happy and healthy as one can expect given the circumstances. My aunt Galadriel grows in beauty and power. Her sullenness, now seen from afar, turns out to be a mere cover for her deep love of the land, her beloved, and the child that we see in her future. No one else appears in these panels.

I am not allowed to see those who are here with me. Vairë says that we all have our ways to heal and our paths to follow. I do not mind. I like to help her, dazzled as I am by the whirls of colour that fly from her hands. Time never stops, but it seems to have slowed down here.

"This lonely word is wasted," she often says, shaking her head time and again as we watch the rise and fall of life and death.

Slowly, I seem to understand what is meant, what lies behind the immediate nature of the world of the living. There is indeed a theme, a song, but we do not see it, blinded to the tide that turns. But death cleanses like a storm. Its winds blow fears away, the fears that cloud our hearts unknown and insidious.

I start to see more and more in the patterns, but still no sense in my own life for I am not allowed to look back.

One day Vairë tells me to find a few old tapestries that have been stored in one of the smaller rooms of that corridor. I find them easily, neatly nailed to the walls, in a private exhibition. I realize that my lady considers it is time for me to reflect on my life, to be my own judge. The honour of being granted her trust outweighs the nagging fear of looking back at my own folly.

I see it all: my birth as first child to an elf who would rather be a poet than a ruler and to a maid who would rather be in love than to abide by her people's ruling. I smile at the tragedy of my mother's banishment by her people, the Avari, now an endearing episode, an illustration of the strength of love. So much pain for so little... There should have been joy on both sides at their love, but no. I see myself growing up alone, tolerated by the Noldorin children, as indeed, poet or not, Orodreth was the scion of kings and I his daughter. I see the walls of love raised by my parents sheltering me. Then the hardship: the siege of Tol Sirion, mother's death, our escape, my little brother alone and weeping, sent to the Havens without a second thought. It all seemed so unfair then, but now the bitterness has left me. I move gladly to the next tapestry, knowing what I will find there: my sweet Gwindor, so wronged by me. Now I can see what I could not before: the inevitable, the understanding in his eyes, the forgiveness that I could not give myself for letting our love die.

I see so much more, as if a veil had been lifted, the bright colours of the tapestry obfuscating the dark cloud that was Túrin, poor, tragic Túrin. I see Gwindor in his true colours, those that I had forgotten: red and gold for his heart, pure white for his soul. A wave of love fills me, a love that I thought had been permanently replaced by guilt. I see that there was little that I could have done upon his return. Gwindor was too broken; he needed healing that no maid could provide. And upon this sight, for the first time, I break the rules. I run back into Vairë's workroom and I ask her about the dead.

"Lady, please tell me about Gwindor. How fares he, I must know."

"You will in good time, child," she says with a smile. "Maybe it is time for you to take the long sleep..."

I frown, confused. I have not slept ever since I arrived here; I have never felt the need.

She takes my arm and leads me out of the halls and down the road into the misty gardens. We sit on a stone bench. She draws my head to her lap, and I feel another presence: Námo himself. Vairë lulls me to sleep, her voice uncannily similar to my mother's, and I quickly enter that world that lies on the border of sleep and alertness. Two children run and laugh in my waking dream, a boy and a girl, the girl falling behind. The girl calls out, "Gwindor!" and the boy turns with a smile on his face.

"I am here, my Fae."

 

_Finis  
August 2006_


End file.
